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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30100797">Elephant</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotalBellarkeTrash/pseuds/TotalBellarkeTrash'>TotalBellarkeTrash</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Cancer, Drug Use, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Slow Burn, Some clexa but I got yelled at for using their tag, clarke/harper friendship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:00:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,821</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30100797</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotalBellarkeTrash/pseuds/TotalBellarkeTrash</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing could've prepared her for the doctors words. Cancer. Clarke Griffin actually had cancer. <br/>It wasn't all bad, though. Cancer, she soon found out, had it's perks. One of those being the overly attentive, very attractive male nurse who just so happened be assigned to her case. <br/>Yeah, looking at Bellamy Blake 5 days a week could definitely be considered a perk.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Abby Griffin/Marcus Kane, Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>55</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi everyone! Thank you guys SO much for reading! This is written a little different, and will alternate between POV's occasionally. No TW's for this chapter.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>No one expects to be diagnosed with cancer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Okay, I take that back. I’m sure </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> people expect to get diagnosed with cancer. People with tumors, or a high genetic predisposition, or hypochondriacs. I supposed they all kind of expect it, but in general, most people don’t think a simple trip to the doctor will end the way it did for me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>But here I am</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Clarke Griffin, 23. I graduated from Yale University last year with an art degree. I just landed my first major gig at one of the biggest studio’s in my hometown of Savannah, Georgia. I have my whole life ahead of me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>All of that just came to crashing halt. Not just a crashing halt, but a train-meets-brickwall type of crashing halt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My mother is the first one to cry, as she and I sat alone in the staunch white doctors office. It startled me, at first, the way a tear slipped from her eye and rolled down her cheek, leaving a shiny trail behind it. My mother was always composed, put together, organzied. I’d seen her cry exactly twice in my life. The first time was when my father died. I was little, only 7, when he succumbed to prostate cancer. The worst part about it? I remember the tears my mother shed even more so than my own dad. The second time I saw my mother cry was at my college graduation. I had excelled, top of my class. It was one single tear, a happy one, a very different type than the ones that were now flowing out of her, a sob unlike anything I’d ever heard from her before erupting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mom,” I whispered, placing a hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her some so the doctor could continue. He was paused mid-speech, papers gripped firmly in his hands, glasses sitting at the end of his olive-colored nose. His gaze was intently set on my mother, and he had his lips pursed, waiting for her theatrics to cease before delivering the rest of my death sentence.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alright, that may be a bit dramatic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wasn’t a death sentence, exactly. In fact, the doctor said my odds were good, although I wondered if he said that to everyone. Stage 2 breast cancer. Stage 2 wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t the worse- it meant that there was very little spread. 5 year survival rate was 93%. I would be fine, I just needed a surgery and some radiation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The surgery aspect raised some tensions between mom and I. The doctor, whom I now recalled by glancing at the plaque on the wall was Dr. Obalgod, laid out the two surgical options.  Lumpectomy or Mastectomy. Both surgeries had their pros and cons. After giving them all in a very medical-esque terminology, my dear mother spoke up. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’ll be having a mastectomy,” Mom said, matter of factly, gripping her chair. She’d now recovered from her earlier </span>
  <em>
    <span>episode</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but her voice was still shaky and her eyes still reddened and swollen and puffy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whoa, wait a minute,” I interjected, turning away from the doctor and towards my mom. Truthfully, I was surprised by her outburst. My mother had raised me to be strong, independent and to make decisions for myself. Now, all of sudden, she was answering for me? I shook my head, trying to process all of the information. “Mom, I’m 23 years old. I’m not sure that a mastectomy is the way to go here.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a lesser chance of the cancer spreading or coming back with a mastectomy, Clarke,” Mom responded sharply. Her light brown brows were knit together in a tight wad, confusion washed her face, which suddenly appeared so much older than it had just a few hours earlier. I mulled over the options in my mind again. Mom was right, there was a lesser chance of spread with a mastectomy, but there was also the very big fact that I would no longer have MY boobs. Does it seem silly? Absolutely. Dr. Obergod- or was it Oobergolb? Whatever- seemed confident that either surgery would give me adequate results. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A lumpectomy would have an easier recovery, I could still possibly breastfeed one day, oh and- it’ll be </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> boobs,” I argued, looking my mom dead in the eye. I could see her body stiffen, her jaw clenching with my words, the realization of fighting a losing battle dawn on her face. I understood Mom’s point, really, but in the end it was my life. I was the one with cancer, and I was the one who would be dealing with the boobs or lack thereof. After staring at me for what seemed like eternity (but was actually probably only about 5 seconds) my mom nodded and redirected her bird-like stare at the doctor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t have to decide anything right away,” He said, reassuringly, passing the stack of pamphlets over the table to me. “The sooner, the better, however. I’d like to get you in ASAP.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ve made my decision,” I replied quickly and a little too firmly. I wasn’t trying to convince the doctor, but rather Mom. My all well-meaning, very firm, equally as stubborn Dr. Abigail Griffin. I could feel the slumping disappointment in her body language as I affirmed my choice. “I want the lumpectomy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Very well,” Dr. G, as I’d decided to henceforth refer to him, said, pressing a button on his computer and pushing the wiry black frames of his glasses up higher on his nose. The action made his brown eyes seem a little bigger, a little less beady. He scrolled down the page, wrinkling his nose as if he’d smelt something off. I wondered for a moment if I remembered deodorant, but I knew that wasn’t the reason for his grim expression. “I’m going to get you in next Tuesday, surgery is at 8:30am sharp. You will need to be here by 6:30am for prep, and you will need to come in the day before for a pre-op exam. Around 4 weeks after the surgery, you will begin radiation treatments. We will discuss those more in depth when the time comes. We do things a little different here at Arkadia Oncology. We try to ensure that the team you start with is the team you finish with-”</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ouch. Like finish life? Or finish treatments? I’m sure it’s the latter, right? “</span>
  </em>
  <span>-If you’re feeling up to it, I’d like to introduce you to the staff who will be over your case.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, why not?” I exhaled, forcing an optimistic smile. Better to get it over with now. Truth be told, I had zero desire to meet any of these people. Not that I thought they’d be awful people or anything, but it suddenly made everything seem very surreal. I was about to meet the people who I’d be spending what would possibly be the worst months- maybe even years- of my life with. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first person we met was the receptionist, Hannah. She was a kind, Asian lady in her mid-40’s with a bright smile and a pink ribbon pinned securely to her scrubs. I’d be checking in with her when I arrived at the oncology unit at the hospital for surgery, and then for 5 days a week for radiation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As we walked through the waiting area, I physically cringed, then felt a pang of guilt about it. There were a few men and women waiting, some with people by their side and some without. Some women wore scarves wrapped around their heads, some a hat, others their natural locks. I swallowed hard, trying to keep the panic at bay. All of these people were older than me by 20 years minimum. They were still kicking. I could be too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next unit we went to was the surgical wing. Dr. G explained that I’d have different nurses while in the OR but once I was in recovery my “personal oncology people” would take over. This set of nurses would handle me post-op, and then take over radiation when that time had come. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The first nurse we met reminded me of a stereotypical grandmother. She was short and plump, with grey hair permed into tiny curls atop her head. She seemed sweet and kind hearted, if not a little absent-minded. Her name was Shirley, and she was one of the first ones on the unit when it opened in 1974. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The next nurse was, well, let’s just say she wasn’t nearly as chipper as the two other staff members we’d met. Josephine was tall and pretty, likely in her early 30’s. She walked with purpose and only spoke to us briefly to introduce herself, then she was off to god knows where. She hadn’t so much as offered a smile before her red high heels turned and clicked away on the white porcelain floor. Of the two nurse options so far, I would much rather have grandma. Atleast she was warm and pleasant, and gave me warm chocolate chip cookie vibes. This nurse gave me “piss-me-off-and-i’ll-unplug-your-lifesupport” vibes. Not good. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She seems pleasant,” I observed outwardly about Josephine as we followed Dr. G through a set of double doors. He chuckled and nodded in a knowing way. I got the sense that he was also slightly intimidated by Josephine, despite his much higher rank in the hospital. She seemed like the type of woman who got her way no matter what. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We finally arrived into the radiation room, where a large machine sat surrounding a sterile looking blue bed. The room was on the small side and I immediately felt nauseous walking into it. The sight of the room, the radiation machine, was instantly sobering. I knew radiation itself didn’t hurt, and it wouldn’t take long every day, but the thought of being trapped on that tiny table day after day was nauseating. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not as scary as it looks,” A deep, low voice said from beside me, drawing my eyes from the blue death contraption (okay, anti-death contraption, I suppose), over to the control panel, where a tall man in blue scrubs stood, pressing buttons on a touch screen, his eyes focused in on the LCD display as he spoke, not yet looking towards us. He was handsome, tall with black hair that was just long enough to gently curl around his face, dark, tan skin, muscular arms. It took another moment before he finally raised his eyes to meet us, letting his hand drop from the buttons as he walked over towards us. He held out his hand toward my mother first, and I instantly understood why. She was older, and logically, if anyone in this room would be getting cancer treatment- it made sense that it was her. He shook her hand with a firm grip that made me slightly jealous, in a weird sort of way, as he introduced himself. “Bellamy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dr. Griffin,” My mom acknowledged, although her tone seemed cold and unamused, as she had also clearly picked up on his mistake. I know she saw this man as a child, an inexperienced nurse who shouldn’t be making snap judgements about who his patients were or were not. Otherwise, she would’ve just introduced herself as Abby, like she had with Hannah and Shirley and even ice-cold Josephine. After giving my mom a forced half smile, the man,</span>
  <em>
    <span> Bellamy </span>
  </em>
  <span>, turned to me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you would be?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Um, Clarke. Clarke Griffin,” I stammered, taking myself by surprise. I typically was not one to get tongue tied or nervous around new people. Yale had beat that trait right out of me, replaced my quiet demeanor with a firm and confident young woman- One who definitely did know her name and definitely did not typically have to force it out around attractive men. Normally, I would’ve chastised myself for it, but as of today I am not just Clarke, but I’m now Clarke with cancer, so I guess I can slack off occasionally. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Especially around obscenely attractive male nurses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Miss Griffin is scheduled for lumpectomy surgery next Monday,” Dr. G explained to Bellamy, gesturing to me. I saw Bellamy’s eyes dart from my mom to me, the mistake he’d made finally registering. His face, which had seemed content, almost happy before, fell ever so slightly as he nodded, taking in the new information and looking me over once more as if actually noticing me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure you’ll do great,” He said, offering a reassuring smile that was as fake as Dolly Patton’s boobs. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wait, am I still allowed to make boob jokes? </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m assigning you as her primary care nurse from this point forward,” Dr G. told Bellamy, his back was now turned to us. I pursed my lips, fighting down a smile. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t happy that I had cancer, but if I had to have cancer, at least I had something nice to look at while dealing with it. </span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As it turns out, my mother’s reaction was about on par for the rest of my loved ones reactions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We told my stepdad, Marcus, first. He and my mom had been married since I was 9, and he was a good substitute dad. He was kind and considerate. He worked as a history teacher at our local high school, coaching football on the side. He’d always been kind to my mom and I, and truthfully, I wasn’t prepared at all for his response. Marcus all but threw himself at my feet once we returned home and broke the news to him. He’d pulled me into a tight hug, something he’d never done before, and whispered something about how I was such a “brave and strong young woman”. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Truth is, though- I didn’t feel like such a brave and strong young woman. Well, not for the reasons he was saying, anyway. My cancer diagnosis didn’t feel like something to be brave and strong about, but rather like a hurdle to the rest of my life. Attending Yale was brave, graduating and scoring an amazing job- that was strong. Having breast cancer? Yeah, not something I exactly chose to do. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I told my best friend, Wells, next. He was by far the worst. He broke down in sobs. Incessant, annoyingly emotional crying. It took everything in my body not to backhand him and tell him to fucking pull himself together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Lastly, I sent a group text to my sorority sisters Harper, Maya, Lexa, Emori and Luna. I didn’t have the emotional energy to call or text them all individually, and I was met with a barrage of well-meaning texts, all wishing me health and informing me to let them know if I needed anything. Everyone sent their condolences. Well, everyone except Lexa. Instead, about 45 seconds after sending the text, my phone began vibrating. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hello?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You bitch!” I heard a shrill, high voice screech on the other line. I rolled my eyes, knowing immediately I was about to get scolded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nice to talk to you too, Lex,” I chided, kicking my feet up on my bed and snacking on Mochi ice cream. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You couldn’t have called me, Clarke?” Lexa asked. Her voice went from shrill and sharp to low, and genuinely hurt. I felt a pang of guilt in my stomach. She was right. I wasn’t too worried about offending the other girls, but Lexa was different. We’d dated my Freshman and Sophomore year, and we really did love each other. As most young loves do, however, we grew apart and broke up the summer between sophomore and junior year. Lexa was leaving for her internship and I still had two years of University.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I should have.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” She replied, the hurt in her voice subsiding a bit, now replaced with worry. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine, honestly,” I swore. Truth be told, I was absolutely over everyone’s theatrics. I was quickly growing tired of the constant worry, the “are you okay” or “what can I do”. Sure, they had good intentions behind them, but it was tiring having to fake the same reply every 30 minutes. “I’m really not worried about it. It has a 93% survival rate, I’m young and healthy. It’s just going to be a surgery, then 6 weeks of radiation, and I’ll be totally fine, I swear.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you’re sure. Look, I’ve got to get back into this financials meeting, call me later, babe, okay?” Lexa said quickly. I could hear someone in the background calling her name. Lexa had made quite a name for herself in the bank industry, a mere two years after she’d graduated with her masters. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Will do.” I promised, but the phone had already clicked.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you nervous?” My mom questioned, reaching for my hand in the oncological suite’s waiting room. I quickly retracted it from her reach and shot her a look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I love you, Mom, but I am not 3,” I chuckled, allowing my hand to rest back into the position it was in. My mother sighed, rolling her eyes and flipping the page on the Cosmopoliton magazine that I knew she wasn’t actually reading. “But no, not really. I’ve had surgery before, it can’t be too different, right?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’d be surprised,” Mom chimed, setting the magazine down on the side table next to her with a loud smack. It drew most of the eyes in the room and I had never wanted to melt into a chair so badly in my life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Griffin!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The deep voice pulled me from my embarrassment, I hopped up quickly, grabbing my purse from the floor beside my mother’s pearl-colored high heels. She went to reach for hers too, and I placed my hand over hers, looking up at her with my eyes pleading for her to stay. I appreciated my mom, I really did. I knew she was worried and terrified after having lost my father at such a young age. Truthfully, however, my mom had raised me to be nothing short of excessively independent. The thought of allowing her to do anything, accompany me anywhere as if I actually needed help- it went against every value she instilled in me growing up. I wanted to show my mom that I was fine, that I didn't need a helping hand, that I was still the strong, independent young woman she’d raised. Thankfully, she got my drift, as she settled back into the chair and snatched the magazine that she’d just put down back up, clearly frustrated with me but accepting it all the same. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned, walking to where my “personal caner nurse” Bellamy stood, propping the yellow-tinted hospital door open with his body, his eyes scanning the chart. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How are you feeling?” He asked politely as we made our way down the hallway. There was no emotion in his voice, and I could sense it was a routine question. I debated my answer a minute, trying to choose between the expected answer and the one that sort of made me sound like a bitch. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck it</span>
  </em>
  <span>, I figured. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve got cancer, I can be a bitch if I want</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I feel like not having my titties sliced and diced like an order of hashbrowns at Waffle House, but it seems as if I might not have much of a choice in that, hm?” I retorted, following his long strides down the hall. I heard a noise, almost a choking sound, and Bellamy’s feet stopped moving, his head turned to look at me. His face was a mixture of amusement and confusion, and I could tell he was struggling to hold back a smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s an… interesting way to put it,” He commented, before regaining his composure and leading me into the exam room. We went through the motions, stepping on the scale, taking my blood pressure, my other vitals, assessing any pain I was having, the works. Finally, after entering all of my information into the laptop that rested on the purple counter- </span>
  <em>
    <span>seriously, why all the random ass colors in a hospital</span>
  </em>
  <span>- he settled against the counter, crossing his arms. I felt my face flush at the way his bicep flexed under his skin, his deep brown eyes looking me up and down. In a different scenario, it would’ve been downright sexy seeing him leaning against something, studying me. Much to my dismay, it was not a different scenario, and this exquisite man was standing in front of me studying me because he was about perform what could be a life saving procedure tomorrow, and that was not sexy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Actually, I lie. It kind of was. I mean, there’s entire shows dedicated to celebrating sexy healthcare workers- </span>
  <em>
    <span>Grey’s Anatomy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, anyone?  I was in a mental battle, trying to determine if Bellamy would be McDreamy or McSteamy, when his voice pulled me from my mental daydream.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you have any questions about the surgery tomorrow?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think I do,” I paused, searching my mind, but coming up blank. Between my physician mother and Dr. Google, I felt as if I could probably do the surgery myself if it wasn’t, you know, on myself. “Do you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bellamy shot me a questioning look, raising his eyebrow. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>McDreamy. 100% McDreamy. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I mean, it’s one thing for me to have questions about it, but it’d be really bad if you had questions about it. My mom gave me a run down on the entire process, so if you have questions about it before you go into the ER please ask. I really would rather not have someone fuck this up, if you know what I mean,” I explained.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good thing I will not be in the operating room tomorrow then, hm?” Bellamy said, turning his back to me to wash his hands after removing his medical gloves. Right. Different OR team. This made me slightly happy, at least Bellamy wouldn’t be seeing me naked, being cut open, tissue and cancer pulled from me. I’m not sure why that was comforting, but for some reason, it was. “Absolutely no food or drink after midnight, okay?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Got it, just coffee.” I assured, cracking a smile and tapping my leg against the bench. Bellamy spun around from the sink, now facing me, merely a few feet in front of me. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No coffee. No tea. No caffeine. Nothing, got it?” He reiterated, his face now serious as he patted his large hands dry with a cloth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That seems like torture!” I argued, pushing back playfully. Typically, I wouldn’t be doing this. Shamelessly flirting with a guy just trying to do his job. For some reason, now, I couldn’t help it. It seemed like a fun game, and something told me Bellamy was more than used to it. I could even sense a bit of amusement playing at his face, despite the attempts to hide it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you think that’s torture, just wait until you’re aspirating mid-surgery on those Waffle House hashbrowns and coffee, and you die a slow, painful death choking on your own stubborness,” Bellamy shot, his eyes narrowing in a challenging way. Despite the seriousness of his threat, his words were lightly and playful, almost matching my flirty tone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Almost.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The evening came and went, and before I knew it was 6:30am the next Tuesday and I was stripped into nothing but a hospital gown. Beside me, a young nurse with red hair pulling into a sleek ponytail was trying, and failing, to find a vein to stick the IV needle into. She was on her 3rd try, and I was growing impatient. I bit my lip, trying not to wince as the woman twisted the needle around in my arm again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here,” Bellamy said, reaching over and placing his hand over the other nurses, signaling her to stop. “Let me get it.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His words weren’t spoken with impatience, but I could sense the frustration growing in Bellamy, too. Either way, all things aside, I was grateful for him stopping her. The young woman slipped out of her seat and out of the room, while Bellamy raised my arm up, inspecting it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She blew your one good vein, I’m going to have to switch arms,” He explained, gently retracting the needle that the woman had inserted from my left arm. This time, with the woman gone, he made no attempt to hide the displeasure in his voice. I groaned playfully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I have more than one good vein, thank you very much,” I teased, giving Bellamy the right arm to inspect. He sucked his teeth for a minute, roughly rubbing his thumb over the skin, trying to get the blood pumping. The feel of his hands against my skin made me blush and my heart pick up the pace.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I disagree. In fact, after examining this arm even more, I have found that my hypothesis is very, very accurate. You’ve got newborn baby veins.” Bellamy said nonchalantly, wrapping a tourniquet around my upper arm. I winced slightly, not that it hurt necessarily- but it was tight and the rubber pulled the little baby hairs on my arm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dear God. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’m such a wuss. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Complaining about baby hairs being pulled when I was literally about to undergo cancer surgery. It was almost funny, in an ironic way. Much to my surprise, despite my “baby veins” Bellamy had much better luck placing the needle. It took him all of about 10 seconds and no digging around this time, thankfully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m so hungry. And tired. Can I have coffee now?” I pleaded, looking at the clock. It was now 8:12am, about three hours after I should’ve had some caffeine. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Bellamy shot me a look of disdain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m just going to run an espresso machine straight into this IV,” He suggested, hanging a bag of something to the top of it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That is 100% a valid option. I fully support your medical opinion,” I joked, leaning my head back against the white pillow. It was flat, and not at all comfortable, but again- priorities. Now wasn’t the time to be bitching about deflated pillows. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, one last thing before I leave you to get some rest before anesthesia comes up. What piercings and tattoos do you have?” Bellamy asked, clicking a few buttons on the laptop, then pausing, waiting for my answer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ears, obviously.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Four clicks on the keyboard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A lion tattoo on my rib cage and a princess tiara on my-” I paused as Bellamy typed, letting him catch up. As soon as his fingers haunted he raised his eyebrow. “Finger. It’s on my finger.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I glanced down, running my thumb over the tiny little tiara situated on the inside of my pinky. It was a last minute, spur of the moment decision when I was 18. I had wanted a tattoo, all of my friends were going, and I had zero ideas of what I’d wanted. It was Wells who suggested the tiny crown. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My dad used to call me princess before he died.” I explained. A little tiara, on my pinky, as a last promise to my dad. The tattoo sometimes made me sad, made me miss him, even though I only vaguely remembered. Most of what I could recall was in pictures, or stories my mom had told. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s sweet,” Bellamy whispered. For some reason the words meant a lot to me, and it felt good to hear him affirm my tattoo choices, not that it would’ve made a difference either way. “I’ve got the flowers of the month my mom was born and the month she died,” Bellamy said. I wasn’t sure if he was telling me this to find us a common ground or if itwas just to make conversation , but it made my skin flush red, a warm uneasiness growing in the pit of my stomach. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What happened to her?” I asked, my voice softening from the playful, flirty tone it previously held. Bellamy swallowed hard and looked down, averting his eyes from mine. The warm fuzzy feeling I had quickly dissipated into guilt. I shouldn’t be prying, asking personal questions like this, but I wanted to keep the conversation going. I didn’t want to sit here alone waiting to be taken back, and I figured as long as I could keep Bellamy here and talking, the longer I would have company.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s a long story,” He excused, but I knew it was just that- an excuse. Before I could apologize for probing, a small woman entered the room with seafoam green scrubs and a long white coat. She pushed the hand sanitizer lever down, rubbing her hand together before slipping on some sterile blue gloves. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good morning, I’m Dr. Smith with anesthesia! I’m going to go ahead and get you started,” She introduced, her voice chipper and bright. Yeah, I bet </span>
  <em>
    <span>she</span>
  </em>
  <span> had </span>
  <em>
    <span>her</span>
  </em>
  <span> coffee this morning. Either way, I was glad it was finally a doctor with a name I might actually remember. Of course, I wouldn’t actually see her but this once, but I knew I wouldn’t be forgetting her name anytime soon. I still feel a little guilty that I could hardly recall my oncologists full name. I watched as Dr. Smith hung a baggie of clear liquid on the tall metal IV pole, her tiny fingers manipulating the line, tying things in, doing all of that fun expert doctor shit. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Would you like me to get your mom?” Bellamy asked. He’d since made his way to the end of my bed, and I bit my lip as he pulled his gloves off and tossed them into the plastic container in the corner, signaling his work with me was done. I shook my head. The quicker we could get into the OR, the quicker I could be out. I knew my mother, as caring and doting as she was, would be hammering the entire OR team with questions about their credentials, their experience, any drug use, felonies, etc. I’d rather save myself the embarrassment and see her after the surgery, as long as there really is no drug-using felons that fuck it up so badly I die. Fingers crossed, right?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, I’m going to go ahead and start the anesthesia. You’re going to start to feel very tired, okay Clarke?” Dr. Smith said as she worked the IV next to me. I averted my eyes, not really caring to watch her pump me full of drugs. She was right, within seconds, my eyes were growing heavy, as if I’d just ran a 5K, hadn’t slept for a week and had never had a touch of caffeine in my life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The last thing I remember hearing was a man whispering beside me. I couldn’t quite discern the voice, my mind swirling and tumbling into darkness. The words sounded like my dad, but it wasn’t him, I knew that much. My mind twisted, trying to sort my thoughts, fight for consciousness one last moment, before slipping into darkness,</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good luck, princess.”  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you guys for the sweet comments and kudos on the first chapter. Here is just a quick update for everyone :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>“Daddy!” </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I ran to his arms, as fast as my legs could carry me. Feet pounding the earth, breathing heavy as my lungs expanded and retracted, gasping desperately for air. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Hey there, Princess,” My father cooed, scooping me up into his arms, caressing my small body in a tight bear hug. I was small enough to fit right into his torso, and I did, pressing my freckled face into his chest. As looked up, I noticed my mother stood beside him, pale, cold. Her eyes were swollen and puffy. She looked like a zombie in her own body.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“How was the doc-er?” I probed, at only six, I still couldn’t quite master the T sounds. My dad pulled away from me, offering the biggest, full-toothed smile.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Oh, it was just fine. Daddy’s going to be A-okay. He’s just going to need some medicine for a little while.” </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then everything was black. Solid, pitch black. There was nothing. My dad was gone, my mom was gone. The fresh field of bright green grass, the warm weather, the light tousle of wind- all of it was gone. Replaced now by a never ending, sweeping hollowness. Now, I was no longer six. My body was once more my body. The shocking realization that my father was not “a-okay” as he’d said came rearing again. Suddenly, all at once, and violently, I was all alone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mom!” I yelled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mom!” I repeated, my voice more desperate this time. Where did she go? Where did they go? I started to run, although I couldn’t see anything ahead of me. It was as if every light in the universe, even the sun, shut off. It was a darkness that you could only experience, but never accurately describe. Nevertheless, I pushed on, running as fast as my legs could carry me, screaming for my mother. Then, it was as if it was all for nothing, there was a searing pain, what felt like a knife slicing it’s way into my chest, down to my heart. Was I having a heart attack? Had I been shot? No matter what had happened, the pain was enough to stop me in my tracks. I fell to my knees, then to the cold, hard black floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, there was light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>White, bright, blinding light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss Griffin?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone was talking, but I couldn’t make out the voice. I squeezed my eyes, forcing them together as tightly as they could, willing out the excessive white light that was shooting pain into my skull.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss Griffin,” The voice said again. It was a male voice, soft and deep and rich and I wanted to drown in it for a moment. In fact, I was pretty sure for a solid 3 seconds that I was. That the voice was an ocean and I was allowing my body to be swept up into its currents. For a moment, I enjoyed it, but the curiosity in me quickly won out. I forced my eyes open, but immediately they snapped close in response to the burning fire of the light. “Clarke.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That finally did it, and I was able to open and close them repeatedly, blinking away the pain as much as possible, sending it tumbling from my retinas into the back of my skull. My eyes flickered around the room, absorbing everything in their path. White ceilings with little flecks of black, white walls, a curtain. There were soft, quiet voices chattering in the background, the exact word unintelligible. My eyes moved from the ceiling to the tall metal IV post beside me, a clear bag hung from an O-ring, liquid steady drip, drip, dripping into a small, plastic tube. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are you feeling?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice made me jump, my head whipping to the side, sending a shockwave pain through my body. It began in my head, and travelled down, lingering on my chest. I had wondered for a moment if I actually had been shot, but the sight of him, Bellamy, made me quickly recall where I was and why I was there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit.” I muttered, allowing my body to physically relax some, hoping it would ease the fire in my chest and the banging in my head. Bellamy took the initiative and pressed a button on the touch screen of the IV post. It made an annoying chirp in response, then a mechanical noise. My vein flushed cold in response, something running through the clear plastic tubing and into my body. At this point, I gave no shits about what it was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you know your name?” Bellamy asked, taking a seat beside me again, his deep brown eyes studying my face. I managed somewhat of a half-smile. Atleast, I tried to. I wasn’t sure if it actually came out or if I had just imagined it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Amelia Earhart,” I responded, playfully. Bellamy’s eyes narrowed slightly, his brows knitting. I rolled my eyes, easing his confusion at my answer. “Kidding. Clarke Griffin. My birthday is July 28th. I am a leo. My mother is Abby, my father is dead and I have cancer. What did I miss?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t reply, instead turning to the laptop beside us and punching the keys. I wondered for a brief moment if I annoyed him, if the playful tone I took was making him uneasy. He seemed like he was enjoying the banter at some times, and others he seemed cold, shut out. I didn’t expect him to be my friend, per se, he was my nurse after all, but sometimes it was nice to have someone to joke around with. Whatever he’d pushed through the IV earlier finally began to kick in, the aches in my body easing slightly, allowing my mind to clear just a little more. After what felt like hours of Bellamy typing away on the laptop- </span>
  <em>
    <span>seriously, was he on Facebook or something?</span>
  </em>
  <span>- he finally turned to me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re getting your room ready now, once you’re transferred your parents and boyfriend can come back,” He said, forcing a smile that I could see right through.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not supposed to have a room?” I asked, shaking my head and trying to sit up some, get a better view of my surroundings. The throbbing in my temple and barbwire in my breast said otherwise, despite the pain medicine, it still hurt to move. “And I didn’t know I had a boyfriend, either?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There were some complications with the surgery. You started to lose a lot of blood and  went into what we call hypovolemic shock. Dr. Obalgod was able to get it under control and get you stabilized, but he wants you to stay here for a few days as a precaution,” Bellamy explains. His eyes met mine and my cheeks flushed ever so slightly as he spoke, his even, calm, matter-of-fact tone soothing, despite what he was saying. It took a moment to register, but even when it did, it seemed minimal. Complications happened, right? I mean, at least I didn’t flatline. It did make me curious, however, if the memory of my father was related. I’m sure it wasn’t- it was likely just a normal anesthesia-induced dream, but still, it was creepy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So tell me about this boyfriend,” I said, desperately wanting to change the subject away from my less than ideal surgery. “Is he cute?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think your mom said his name was William? Wilbert?” Bellamy’s mind was churning, and I couldn’t help but laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wells?” I corrected. He nodded in response and shrugged, signaling his nonchalance in the matter. I let another loose, half laugh fall from my lips as my head rested back against the pillow. “Wells is definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>my boyfriend, he’s like my brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He seemed pretty worried when we spoke to him,” Bellamy observed, his gaze not leaving my face. It was everything I had not to let my eyes scan his face, those deep brown eyes, black curls falling around his ears, soft lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God, no. Stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>. If there was anything I couldn’t be doing- it was getting a legitimate crush on my nurse. It was one thing to admire his features and acknowledge that in a weird, totally inappropriate way he was hot, but it was another to let that hotness make me into a blushing, eye-batting, stupid girl. I sucked my teeth, forcing my mind to clear itself from Bellamy and back to the topic at hand. Wells. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s… emotional, to say the least.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bellamy chuckled in a knowing way, finally turning away from me to adjust some of the buttons on the IV. As he did so, a tiny, young girl in navy blue scrubs pushed her way through the curtain. A clipboard was situated in her scrawny, pale arms, a pen tucked behind her ears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have Miss Griffin’s room available, whenever you’re ready, sir. I can call transport for you, if you’d like,” The girl said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. She flashed Bellamy her biggest smile, her eyelashes batting sweetly. It was everything I could do not to let my eyes physically roll out of my head at her attempts to gain his attention. Apparently, Bellamy’s attractiveness was not lost on his co-workers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, that’d be great, Sarah,” Bellamy replied kindly, rising to his feet. He towered over the small woman by at least a foot, his large frame accentuated even more by the broad, strong shoulders pulling at the edge of his just slightly too-tight blue scrubs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If there’s anything else you need, let me know!” The girl said before bounding out of the curtain, basically skipping out of there. This time, I didn’t hold the laugh in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn, I’m surprised she managed to keep her scrub pants on,” I commented, allowing the amusement to tinge my voice. Bellamy turned towards me, rotating gracefully on his feet, biting his lip ever so slightly and rolling his eyes at my comment, sending my stomach flipping.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know exactly what I mean,” I insisted, and he did, I could tell by the smug look plastered on his face, the way he didn’t outright deny or affirm my observations. “Do you like her?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Line- crossed. 100%. At this time and point, however, I didn’t care. I was bored, and had nothing better to do than play 20 questions with Bellamy Blake while waiting for the people from transport to move me to my room. After all, there were much worse games I could play, and Bellamy seemed to oblige me most of the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, she isn’t really my type.” Bellamy chided, standing at the end of the hospital bed, large hands placed on the rails, gripping them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is your type?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paused for a moment, thinking, his eyes drifting upward as he thought. After a brief exhale, he focused his gaze back on me. “Kind, intelligent, strong, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> a total smartass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last comment was definitely aimed towards me, my sarcastic comments towards him replaying in my mind. Despite the pointed remark, it wasn’t made with venom, but rather his tone was less serious, lighter, almost playful, in a weird way. I could tell the words weren’t to hurt me, but rather get under my skin, irritate me just enough to elicit a response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your type sounds absolutely dreadful,” I bounced back, flashing him an equally playful smile. He returned it, sending my heartrate up and my stomach back to doing flips. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what if he saw that on the monitor</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, is that so?” He feigned hurt, releasing the bedrails and pushing his weight back against the wall. “You talk big game- what’s yours?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we talking about men or women here- because they’re distinctly different?” I asked, propping up on the pillow some so I could still see his face. For a brief second, confusion flashed it, then realization, then back to intrigued. Before he could answer, two people in navy scrubs pushed through the curtains. I flashed Bellamy a flirty, playful smile just before we were interrupted by the introductions of the two people. “I guess you’ll never know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Transport quickly got me prepared, gathering my IV and my bed and moving me from the abnormally tiny recovery room to a standard hospital room just down the hall and to the right. It was your typical room: white walls with black and blue accents. A window with floorlength curtains and a rod to adjust them. A yellow oak door led to what I assume was the bathroom, a porcelain sink right by the door. The view was abnormally nice for a hospital, looking over the Savannah river, a few boats floating by. There were storage shelves by the window, and a TV mounted to the top of them. The transport staff positioned my bed directly in front of the TV, pushing it flush against the wall, and going to work rehooking it, the IV, everything that was necessary to let them know if I suddenly decided to unalive. Before they were even through, the door to the entrance was pushed open, and in walked my mom, Kane and Well’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi honey,” Mom greeted, basically jogging the distance from the door to my bed. She gently rested her weight on the end of it, by my feet. “How are you feeling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I am so tired of that question. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” I insisted, desperately trying to push the annoyance in my voice out. My mom meant well, she really did, and I was glad she was here. As much as I tried not to rely on her, she was a constant source of support in my life. I knew that no matter what happened, she’d be right there. She may not always agree with my decision, but she always considered my side, my approach. I was thankful that I had grown up with a mom that loved me unconditionally enough to hand me the reins and let me be in charge of my own life. My eyes scanned her face, which was tired and worn. Guilt and sadness crept into my mind, wanting to comfort my mother, erase the devastation from her eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You scared me, Clarke.” She whispered, a little firmer this time, the words slipping out from in between her teeth. Her slender hand reached down, seeking mine, pulling it into her lap. Her eyes bore holes into my face, the guilt running from my min into my stomach, although there wasn’t anything I could’ve done to change how the surgery went. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything is fine,” I reassured, squeezing her hand. Wells broke out from behind Marcus, and came around to the side of the bed my mother didn’t occupy. In his hands, he had a small bouquet of flowers and a card. I shot him a sweet smile. Wells was so caring, he always went out of his way for his friends and family, no matter how emotional he could be, he was my rock more often than not, and he kept me grounded our entire lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wells and I had practically been raised as siblings. Our parents were best friends even before we were born, and we spent the first 7 years of our lives with each other every day. After my dad passed, things became a little tense for a while. We still saw them, except it had become sporadic and unpredictable. When my mom had started dating Marcus, things soon returned to normal, and we began seeing each other multiple times a week. His dad worked at the same practice as my mom, and if we weren’t attending work functions together, we were barbequing in the backyard, taking weekend camping trips, going to Tybee island to play in the sand and watch the dolphins. He’d been there through my first boyfriend, my first car, losing my virginity, going off to college, finding Lexa, subsequently losing Lexa, graduation, and now he was here- sitting by my bed with flowers and a kind heart and making me feel like I had the best support system in the world. Wells was the closest thing I would ever have to a sibling, and I loved him like so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three of us sat and chatted for about an hour, making small talk. The medicine Bellamy had given me slowly began to lose its effect. The pain started radiating again, not unbearable but not pleasant. Centering in my chest, the area where they’d sliced and cut and rearranged my boob, and spread through my body. Everywhere was silently aching. In addition to this, my eyes began to feel heavier and heavier, fatigue taking over my body like a disease. Much to my pleasure, there was a knock at the door, followed by it being pushed open, and in walked Bellamy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just wanted to refresh your fluids and see how you were doing,” He explained, pushing past the curtain. As soon as he did, Marcus stood up quickly, with surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bellamy Blake?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kane!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of them directed towards each other, Kane taking a giant step towards him and pulling him into a friendly, firm hug. I watched from the bed, in utter confusion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s so good to see you, what has it been- 10 years now?” Kane asked, running his hand through his greying hair, breaking the hug, yet remaining. Bellamy nodded, flashing one of the realest smiles I'd seen from him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Almost, 10 years this May,” He corrected, that genuine smile still plastered on his face. I glanced from them to my mom, who shared the same dumbfounded look I did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How have you been? And Octavia?” Kane inquired.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good, we’ve been good. She’s turning 21 in about two months, she’s a junior at SCAD,” Bellamy explained. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Octavia? Who the hell was Octavia? How did they know each other? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn, I can’t believe that, she was what, 11 when you graduated?” Kane asked, his mind doing mental gymnastics to do the math. Bellamy nodded, confirming that his memory served him right. Kane placed a hand on his shoulder and exhaled deeply, his demeanor changing. “I was so sorry to hear about your mom. Cancer’s a bitch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oof. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt like I had been punched in the gut. Suddenly, it became clear why Bellamy didn’t tell me about his mom right before I went in for the surgery. I wondered what type she died from, how long ago it was. I knew the pain of losing a parent, but this seemed different. Clearly, Bellamy was older when she died. I still wasn’t sure who Octavia was, or how she played a role in this, but before I was able to ask any questions, Well’s cleared his throat, warning the others not to continue in their cancer-death talk. Without skipping a beat, Bellamy broke from Kane and made his way to my IV, clipping and unclipping, slipping the empty fluids into the trash and replacing them with a fresh bag. My head fell back against the pillow, the excitement of the moment gone and exhaustion rushing over my body once more. They were chatting, making small talk, but I couldn’t force myself to try and decipher the words. Bellamy either picked up on it, or he had been in the field long enough to know. After readjusting everything, he turned to the corner my family was gathered in and offered them a small smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Clarke is probably very tired. It would do her good to get some rest,” He commented, his voice deep yet friendly. He wasn’t outright kicking them out, but it was rather a suggestion- a hinting that my body was aching and worn and right now I just wanted to close my eyes and slip into sleep. My mom read his intentions immediately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I believe you are correct,” She said, taking Marcus’ hand in hers and shooting me a smile. “We will go have lunch and get your things from your apartment. Shoot us a text as soon as you are awake and we’ll be right back here, okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, mom,” I whispered, my face falling into a smile. It was a real one, this time. Not fake or forced, but a happy smile, knowing my mom had my back and wasn’t going anywhere for long. I watched with slight relief as they slipped out the door, letting it click behind them. My eyes immediately went to Wells, who’d made his way beside my bed again. His hand snaked down to find mine, grasping it gently, lifting it to his lips. He laid a gentle, soft kiss right on the top, running his thumb over my fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure you’ll be fine by yourself?” He asked, allowing his hands to drop down, not yet releasing mine. I gave an encouraging nod, yawning simultaneously. A deep sigh fell from his lips and he nodded sadly, finally allowing his fingertips to release, settling my hand gently back onto the bed. Wells leaned over and now kissed my forehead quickly, signaling that he, too, was leaving. It was weird, in total transparency. Wells and I weren’t exactly touchy-feely. We’d hugged of course, occasionally a friendly, comforting kiss on the cheek, but never this often and never to this extent. It made me realize just how hard he was taking it. His brown eyes told the truth: he was petrified, and he made no attempts to hide it. Without saying another word, I watched as he, too slipped out the door. I wanted to relax immediately, close my eyes, sink into unconsciousness- except for Bellamy, who had positioned himself in the corner of the room, typing away on his little portable laptop. As soon as he felt his gaze on mine, a teasing half smile dawned his face, one eyebrow lifted. He didn’t have to say what he was thinking. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not a boyfriend, huh? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Truthfully, Wells wasn’t. He never would be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t give me that look,” I chided, adjusting the blanket. Bellamy chuckled and nodded, deciding he’d better drop it and revert back into perfect nurse mode. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you need anything else before I go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What kind of cancer was it?” I asked, completely ignoring his question. I now had a ton of questions- about Bellamy, Kane, how they knew each other. In the present moment, however, I was too utterly exhausted to explore any of those, or to entertain formalities, so I chose to ask the most important one, to me, anyway. Bellamy sighed in response, averting his eyes, knowing exactly that I was referring to his mom. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t matter,” He muttered, making a step towards the door. “All of it is a bitch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nodded, wanting to press further but not having the energy to. As Bellamy flipped the light switches off, I closed my eyes. In a matter of seconds, my body was floating, sinking, slipping back into a dream, a dream about a tall man with deep brown eyes and black curly hair whose voice made my heart jump in the best of ways. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you again so much for taking the time out of your day to read my little fic! Kudos and comments are always treasured and appreciated!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one is a short, quick read! <br/>Bellamy POV</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I think it’s just a little bit excessive,” Josephine argued, slamming her files down on the breakroom table, her shrill voice echoing, bouncing off the walls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If it’s what the patient wants- then that is what we do. It isn’t our place to put our opinions in on other people's lives, on their treatments!” I retorted, running a hand through my hair to diffuse the tension filling the room. There was fire, burning rage, welling inside of me, but I mustered all of my energy to keep my voice calm and cool, whereas Josephine’s was anything but. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Kiser is dying, Bellamy. Every single thing he’s putting into his body right now is only prolonging the suffering. Bite the bullet, stop the medication, and die with some fucking dignity,” Jo argued back, her chest heaving, voice not breaking. If there was one thing she was, Josephine was passionate. She was opinionated, and no matter if she was right or wrong- every single word she spoke was uttered with nothing less than sincerity. Although we often didn’t agree, I admired her for her brazenness, the way she never backed down from what she believed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one dies with dignity, Josephine, haven’t you figured that out by now?” Dr. Obalgod piped from the corner of the room, his voice calm and even, everything that Josephine’s wasn’t. This scenario was a common one for us. Josephine and I hashing it out in the breakroom, Obalgod watching with amusement before putting us both in our place. We didn’t have hard feelings for one another, truly, we just didn’t click well. We had opposing views on just about everything, and when you have two very passionate, stubborn people- conflicts are bound to happen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have patients to check on,” Josephine spat, spinning on her heels, basically flying out of the room on her witches broom. I rolled my eyes, although she couldn’t see it, and watched as the door slammed shut with a click. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Testy, that girl,” Dr. Obalgod commented, amused. He let the papers he was reading fall gently on the counter beside him. “Not unlike yourself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least I’m right when I’m testy,” I argued sarcastically, enjoying the now light banter between us, a refreshing contrast from the exchange moments earlier. Obalgod let out an amused laugh, knowing that I was bullshitting him. Truth is, I was often wrong, but I’d never admit that. “I think I have patients to check on, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After you’re done, stop by Miss Griffin’s room. I want a report on her, if everything is still good today we will discharge her tomorrow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarke Griffin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was… something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t often that I didn’t have the words, but when it came to her, they slipped by me, fluttering in the breeze, just slightly out of reach. At first she struck me as slightly bitchy, ornery and stubborn. Which, truth be told, she was all of those things, but in an annoyingly, overly endearing way. It’d been three days since her surgery, and each day, she’d greeted me with a sarcastic comment slipping from her lips, inching me a little further in my opinion of her, the fondness for her rising in my chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Doing as Dr. Obalgod said, I quickly made my rounds through the oncology unit, checking on my regular patients, greeting my colleagues, before heading upstairs to the surgical wing, where Clarke’s in-patient room was. As I approached it, I heard the slightly raised voices coming from just beyond the door. I paused, body tense, listening in where I likely-</span>
  <em>
    <span> no definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span>- shouldn’t be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I really don’t know what to say to that, Wells! You’re like my brother!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clarke’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really, is that all? You’re telling me you’ve never thought of me as just a little bit more than that? All those nights I spent at your house, the parties, the drunken cuddling- you didn’t feel anything for me?” A man’s voice, Wells, I presume, responded. He was clearly upset, his voice was laced with urgency and hurt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I felt like you were there for me as a friend! I don’t understand, why? Why are you doing this right now? Of all times, I don’t need this on top of-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“On top of what, Clarke? Having surgery? Cancer? Why do you think I decided to tell you now? I don’t want you to go through this and for me not to have told you how I felt. I just- I need some air.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I heard Well’s footsteps growing louder, approaching the door. Tucking myself up against the wall, out of the way, he swung it open and basically jogged out, letting it slam closed behind him. My eyes followed his feet as they made their way down the hall. If he’d seen me, he didn’t make any knowledge of it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Truth be told, I felt sorry for him. He’d been here every day for hours on end, and it was clear he definitely did have strong feelings for Clarke, as I had suspected. Hell, I figured anyone who had the chance to know her developed those sooner or later, but Clarke was right. Now was definitely not the time to be confessing any undying love, especially when you weren’t 100% sure that the feelings were requited. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A normal person probably would’ve turned away at that point, chosen to find something to busy myself for a few moments while Clarke regained her bearings. Me, being me, however, opted not to do this. Instead, I knocked on the door, and waited for her voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come in.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was quiet, her tone not as strong and powerful as it usually was. I entered into the room, where Clarke sat on the edge of her bed, legs folded under her. Her wavy blonde hair was pulled up tightly into a bun, her lips slightly parted, eyes widened with confusion and shock. Upon seeing me, her jaw clenched and she looked away from me, both unusual for my daily visit. Typically, I was met with snarky comments and a twinkling eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You okay?” I whispered, pushing my weight against the door to click it closed. Clarke forced a smile, taking her lip into her teeth for just a moment, mulling on the question. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heard that?” She asked, totally ignoring the question I’d posed. I nodded in response, her eyes finally meeting mine. She didn’t seem sad, and I was thankful for that, but rather she seemed aloof, confused and just overall like she’d just seen a ghost, and maybe she had. Maybe she’d just seen the ghost of her friendship with that boy flitter and float around the room, taunting her, letting her know that nothing would be the same between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” I asked again, taking a step towards her. A smile rose on her soft pink lips, her eyes glistening for just a moment, her body language softening into comfort. Despite her efforts, I could tell it was all ingenuine, a façade, an attempt to hide the emotions bubbling in the pit of her stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m fine, always am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t take long to figure this girl out. She’d never admit it when she was struggling, whether that be physically or emotionally. I could sense that she’d grown up being pushed to always have a straight face, to pursue any adversary with a smile and strong shoulders, and I respected that. The way she carried herself, her fast tongue, the glimmer of life and youthfulness in her eyes. It was a nice change, a refreshing glass of cool water when compared with our usual patients. Cancer had a way of sucking the life out of people, bit by bit, little by little. It gnawed at their souls and dug it’s fingers into their lives. For most people, this happened at the time of diagnosis. For others, it took a few weeks or months of fighting a losing battle. Even more rarely, it never happened. There were exactly two people whom I could remember that never lost that youthful glow, the fighting fire. I prayed that Clarke would be the third. “And how are you feeling? Pain levels?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please refer to my last commentary,” She replied with a smile, crossing her arms, then quickly uncrossing them when a sharp sting of pain ran from her incision to her core. Clarke’s face stayed straight, but I wasn’t an idiot, and could see the tension in her muscles in response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dr. Obalgod said you could go home tomorrow,” I smiled, leaning against the wall, studying her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And miss seeing your pretty face every day? Damn.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This girl was going to drive me absolutely crazy. If we’d been in any other situation, I would’ve produced an equally flirty comment, tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers lingers just long enough to answer some questions and leave some, also. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But goddamnit, we were in a hospital, and she was my patient, and despite the thoughts in my head, I had to betray my body and answer her with only a chuckle, dismissing the comment and not allowing it to do things to my mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, you’ll be seeing me every day again pretty soon,” I reminded, bringing up her impending radiation treatments to ease the tension in the room. Much to my dismay, it didn’t work. Instead, the tension shifted from a flirty one to one a bit more serious and morbid. Clarke’s smile fell ever so slightly and it felt like a punch in the gut, knowing that my words stung, even just slightly.  “Do you need anything before I head out?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, thanks, I think I’m good.” Clarke replied softly. I nodded, pushing my weight off the wall and preparing myself to leave. I would sit in this room all day, if I could. Bantering with her, entertaining any thoughts we may have. The consequences of our situation, however, forbid me from doing so. Just before turning to leave, I paused, mulling my words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t blame him, really,” I said quietly. Clarke’s eyes narrowed, searching my face with slight confusion. “Wells. I’m not saying now was the time, because it wasn’t. But you can’t blame him for feeling the way he does about you. He’d be crazy not to.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Before I could push any farther, nor wait for an answer I’m not sure I wanted to hear, I spun on my feet, slipping through the doors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was definitely not my place to make any sort of commentary on that. In fact, it was wildly inappropriate, and guilt and shame washed over me. I wasn’t typically one to walk the line, push things to any point that shouldn’t be met. I was professional and rational in almost every scenario. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So why was it so hard with her?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Line, meet crossed</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for the read! I will be updating with a longer chapter soon, I promise!<br/>As always, kudos and comments are so very appreciated.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it! Will update soon, until then I sincerely appreciate kudos and comments!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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